Blame the Alcohol
by EssaTheTwerp
Summary: Pansy Parkinson knows it's selfish of her, but she can't bring herself to care. No one has given her as much attention as he does. Not ever. One-shot, Ron/Pansy, rated T. Written for the FanFiction School of Imagination and Creativity, PDHPE Assessment 2. WARNING: Non-descriptive character death.


**Blame the Alcohol**

It's been over a year since Voldemort lost, and Pansy Parkinson still hasn't recovered.

She had put all her money on the Dark Lord prevailing. She didn't necessarily agree with all his principles, but Muggleborns weren't important, and she wouldn't get hurt, so Pansy supported the Death Eaters. All of her friends had family members in the movement, after all, and she couldn't stand to be an outcast.

He had just seemed so _strong_. He'd been winning from the very beginning—she hadn't suspected that Harry Potter, _the good side,_ would win. She had simpered and begged to get into the Death Eater's good graces, graveled at Draco's feet in order to catch his attention.

And damn, did Pansy love Draco. He was so smart and handsome; he would get far in life, especially since Harry had granted his family a pardon. But he didn't _want_ her, not since she had become so scorned upon. She just _had_ to be the one to suggest giving up Harry. They were all thinking it, she knew they were.

She didn't know what to do after Draco denied her. She'd been groomed since birth to become the perfect Pureblood wife, and Draco was her number one choice. Half the Slytherins had been locked up after the war. There was no one left to take care of her.

She still lived with her parents. She tried halfheartedly to apply for jobs, but her real interest lay in finding a husband. She would visit Draco every so often, but a part of her realized that he was officially lost to her.

There weren't a lot of places that Pansy could go without being turned away or scoffed at, but bars worked. They were perfect, in fact. She could weed out the bad men easily enough, and if she didn't find 'the one' (which she definitely hadn't yet), she could find someone who would be content with just spending the night with her. That was more than easy enough to do.

It was one of these nights when she ran into _him_.

It was clear and hot out, unusually stifling for late May. Pansy had put on her best make-up, but she could feel her lipstick had been smudged from knocking back one too many shots. She was wearing a think black blouse with a skirt that was much too short to be allowed (her father would've had her head).

All in all, the night wasn't going that badly. Two men had flirted with her—the first had been disgusting, but the second would be a nice mate for at least a little while. It was getting late and she was just about to give up when a man sat next to her with a loud, disgruntled sigh. Pansy jumped and then glared at him, huffing when he didn't even spare her a _glance_.

He had wild red hair and a full beard, which was intimidating in itself, but when he _growled_ at her—actually let out a feral-sounding snarl—Pansy nearly fell over. Her mouth was very dry and she was trembling, but she straightened her back and glared at him, determined to stand her ground. She wasn't very brave, but she certainly wasn't about to let anyone push her around.

"Excuse me," she frowned, carefully brushing her skirt off, "But I'd think you would have more manners than that." The man chuckled, a dark sound that sent chills down her spine. Pansy leaned forward and brushed her hand against his shoulder, trying to get his attention. This man definitely intrigued her, and his body type seemed about right for someone of her age.

He turned around, intent on chewing her out, no doubt, and she saw right away that this mysterious, scruffy man was, Ron Weasley.

She didn't remember all that much after realizing who he was. Small snippets of the night stuck out—they'd stared at each other in silence for a while, and then they'd accused each other of God knew what, before angrily slamming down a few drinks.

She had no idea how they'd stumbled through the bar, or how she'd been coherent enough to Floo to Ron's apartment. In fact, Pansy didn't even remember how they started kissing. She just knew that one moment, they'd been breathing heavily, in the midst of a heated argument about how much of a bitch she really was, and in the next second they were pressed against each other, attacking necks and mouths with all the passion they had left.

Pansy had never been so turned on before—not by anyone. She knew she should stop, but she just… _couldn't_. He was a Gryffindor, on the opposite side of the war, the best friend of Harry Potter and one of her greatest enemies. But he was pressing his lips against her and tugging at her shirt and her underwear and how could she say no? How could she say no when she'd said yes to worse?

It is only that morning, when she wakes tangled in his sheets and utterly alone, that Pansy thought maybe she made a mistake. She hears sounds in the kitchen, and after a few disorienting seconds she is sure that she could hear the sounds of Ron pleading, and a woman crying, screaming.

Her heart sinks to her stomach as she remembers Hermione. She feels awful, like a whore, and maybe she is.

She stays as silent as she can for as long as possible, but eventually she has to pick herself off the bed and find all her clothes. She tries to cover as much of her body as she can, but she can't find her underwear. She knows she'll have to go out in the kitchen and face the arguing couple, but she doesn't know how to do so.

Pansy knows that, for Ron's sake, she should try and sneak by, but a much more selfish part of her wants to strut in front of Hermione, show her that _for once_, Pansy Parkinson as bested her. She has slept with Ron Weasley when Hermione took so long to get even a kiss out of him. Plus, she sort of liked the way Ron treated her, and she wouldn't mind visiting him again.

But then she hears a door slam shut, and furious footsteps are charging towards her. Ron throws the door open and she can smell the alcohol on his breath from across the room, but she pushes that out of her mind as he saunters toward her and slants his lips across her mouth, plunging in for a deep, meaningful kiss.

"Hermione," she squeaks, not sure what she could possibly say after uttering the girl's name. Thankfully, Ron interrupts her, roughly shoving her back towards the bed. He distracts himself, but they don't get very far before he passes out. She wonders idly how much he had to drink between when he woke up and now—it must've been quite a lot.

Quietly, Pansy leaves her address with a note telling him to Floo her some time, if he wants to, and then she leaves, ignoring the random items strewn across the apartment that scream Hermione.

It doesn't take much more than day for him to show up again, and when he does they don't talk, just get to it. They are passionate and Ron is always drunk, but she doesn't care. She's never gotten such attention from anyone before, especially not a lover. It's incredibly selfish of her, but Pansy has never been known for thinking of others and she refuses to start now.

She starts hearing rumors of Hermione leaving Ron, and thinks that they're probably true, because Ron has been a lot drunker and comes to her a lot later at night. She secretly thrills in it.

He takes her to his apartment—suddenly much barer than that first night—and takes her every way she could possibly think of. They still don't really talk, but Pansy can feel herself getting antsy. She asks if maybe they can go on a date, and he raises his hand as if to strike. At the last second, he closes his eyes and leans back against the pillow, mouth trembling slightly.

She waits for him to say something for a long time, and then leaves when she realizes he's fallen asleep.

One night Pansy shows up to his house and finds him laying on the floor, bottles of rum and vodka littered around him. It's been nearly a year since that first night and she's been working up the nerve to ask him for a deeper relationship for a very long time.

When she asks for a date this time, he only nods his head. She gets so excited, dresses up nicely and takes extra time to do her hair and make-up. Pansy sits nervously on her couch and waits for Ron to Floo in, rubbing at her arms when gooseflesh pops up. It gets later and later, and she tries very hard not to get disappointed.

Eventually she takes off her nice clothes and her make-up and climbs back into bed, wiping at her eyes and sniffling delicately, because she can't bring herself to break into tears.

The next day she opens up the newspaper and sees Ron's face plastered on the inside.

He had been found in his bed, cradling a picture of Hermione with an empty bottle of whiskey in his grasp. Blame the alcohol, everyone said, blame the alcohol.

Pansy couldn't blame anything but herself.

* * *

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter.

This was written for the FanFiction School of Imagination and Creativity, PDHPE Assessment 2. My chosen issue was **alcoholism**.


End file.
